


I Saw Three Ships

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Christmas, Christmas Island, Cunnilingus, Desert Island, Desert Island Fic, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!mycroft, Femlock, Frottage, Happy Ending, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Male!Anthea, Pining Lestrade, Pining Mycroft, Rimming, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock & John end up shipwrecked on Christmas Island. Meanwhile back in London, star-crossed Mycroft and Lestrade continue to pine for each other, but happy endings in everyone's stocking by Christmas!</p><p>From the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2642657/chapters/5900570">Black Dragon Pearl</a> 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock and John sat side-by-side on the wet sand, both staring at the horizon, each lost in her own thoughts.

Finally, Sherlock said, “I have become a bloody awful sailor, John. Once upon a time, I captained the fastest tea clipper in the world…”

“It is a pity that when my fins turned into legs, they did not, in fact, turn into _sea legs_.”

“…and today, I find myself, for the second time in my illustrious sea-faring career, stranded and shipwrecked…”

“How do you think I feel? A former mermaid coming to the sober realisation that she abhors boats!”

Sherlock turned and looked at her. “If we ever find our way off this island, I propose that we seek new occupations. What say you?”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

* * *

“It _is_ funny, Sherlock.”

“What?”

“It was our quest for privacy that brought us here.”

“On the contrary, John, it was a violent storm that brought us here.”

“Yes, but we wouldn’t have been in the covered dinghy if we hadn’t been seeking a bit of space to ourselves.”

“Which is very difficult to come by on any vessel, much less one so aptly named _The Crumb_.”

“And you won’t convince me that it was anything but a cheeky prank, the crew putting the dinghy into the water.”

“With us so absorbed in our acts that we were completely unawares.”

“And then the storm came up suddenly, perhaps there wasn’t time or they forgot.”

“That we were not aboard? Very unobservant of them.”

“And us.”

“True. John, I confess that when I am in your arms, I am so wholly focused on you, your sighs, your tremors, your scent, etcetera, and my lone thought is of how I might wring one more ounce of pleasure from your body. I find my preoccupation is so complete that, quite frankly, the rest of world ceases to matter or even, lamentably in this instance, enter into my purview.”

“That’s lovely, and I feel the same way, but to my first point, we were seeking privacy.”

“Yes?”

John smiled. “And now we have this,” she waved her arms around them, “to ourselves.”

Sherlock returned her smile. “Ah, so we do.”

“So once we secure the essentials: fresh water, provisional shelter, a bit of sustenance…”

Sherlock drew her closer until her breath brushed John’s cheek. “I can think of nothing more essential than hearing your unmuffled cries of ecstasy.”

“Sherlock…”

“My sharpest weapon,” Sherlock produced a leather-encased knife and held it out, “apart from my not-inconsiderable wits, of course, will be no match for any blood thirsty predators that might be lurking in the interior, John. I’d rather my last thought be the lingering taste of you on my lips.”

John chuckled. “Well, when you put it like that...”

They stripped and spread their wet garments on the sand and fell together atop them. Sherlock nuzzled and licked John’s neck while John ran her hands down Sherlock’s back until she was cupping Sherlock’s buttocks. She rolled them until she was on her back and Sherlock was nestled between her open thighs. When their sexes touched, John threw her head back and sighed contentedly. Sherlock hummed in reply and pushed up slightly on her forearms. John wound one arm round Sherlock’s neck and dropped the other to her side so that she could look down and watched their bodies move together. She lifted her hips up, and then Sherlock bore hers down, and their synchronized motion, accompanied by ocean waves crashing and seabirds cawing, was both hypnotic and electrifying.

“Sherlock,” John panted. “It’s beautiful. Us.”

Sherlock grunted and slipped a hand under John’s thigh, supporting her, guiding her, pulling her even closer. Her lips moved up John’s neck until her teeth scraped the point of John’s chin. “And this is just the beginning. As we explore this island, we can explore each other, too. Discover it, discover us. What you like, what I like, what we like together.”

“I like being under you. I like rutting. I like your lips on my neck.” John added with a grin, “I especially like your kisses.”

Sherlock pressed her lips to John’s, then she pulled back and said solemnly, “Then you shall have them, and more, every day for the rest of our lives, however long or short they may be. And I don’t care what part of this world we find ourselves as long as we’re together. You are my home, John.” Sherlock punctuated her words with a tender brush of her thumb across John’s bottom lip.

“And you are mine,” said John.

They kissed again.

Then John looked down at their bodies, still joined and moving as one. She groaned. “Find your pleasure, and then I’ll take mine.” Sherlock made to protest, but John cut her off. “Please, Sherlock. Come for me. I want to watch my clever captain fall apart. Just for me.”

Sherlock quickly adjusted their legs until she was straddling John. Then she began to rut furiously against her. John marvelled at how the lilac-coloured rosebuds inked over Sherlock’s heart quivered as she chanted, “John, John, John.”

“Say it as loud and as much as you desire, Sherlock,” John urged.

“JOHN!”

In an instant, their positions were reversed, with Sherlock flat and John straddling her. John piled her wet hair on her head with two hands. Then she arched her back and looked down at Sherlock through thick eyelashes.

“That’s right, show me your beautiful form,” said Sherlock, her voice still thick with desire. “You make me weak when you look at me like that. Who needs a siren’s song when you have that wanton gaze?”

John’s hands flew to her own waist and travelled upwards, caressing her stomach, fondling her breasts, teasing her nipples. “I am just learning this new body, Sherlock. Some sensations are still novel.” Her fingertips skimmed up along her neck, with its skin still flush from Sherlock’s attention, momentarily stopping to recall the gills that had magically vanished along with her tail at the very first touch of Sherlock’s lips to hers. Then she piled her hair up again and pouted coyly.

“Then allow me to be your fellow pupil, tutor, much interested spectator, whatever role I might have.” Sherlock drew the knuckle of her curled index finger back and forth at the juncture where John’s damp mons was pressed against her own flesh.

“Oh, yes, Sherlock.” John’s hips began to buck into the caress.

“How swollen your sweet bud is, John! What I said earlier wasn’t a jest. I want you to paint my lips with your release.”

John fell forward and by mimicking Sherlock’s earlier frenzied rutting, felt the warmth inside her begin to grow. Just as it threatened to burst, she inched up Sherlock’s body and offered her sex to Sherlock’s mouth. John came with a loud cry that blended easily into those of the seabirds that soared overhead. Sherlock seemed to be devouring John, sending a second and even a third faint wave of pleasure coursing through her body.

John moved to the side and Sherlock sat up, licking her lips and grinning. “Now knowing the precise nature of the victory celebration, I am prepared to battle any monster that awaits us!”

John laughed and got to her feet. “Come, let’s see where we are.”

* * *

They found the island decorated with caves and, after much searching and debate, chose one as their home. They christened it with a slow languid fuck where fingers and then tongues played with clits and cunts. If any of the seabirds had had a mind to eavesdrop, they would’ve hear repeated refrains of sighs and moans.

“Like that?”

“Oh yes! More of that! And that, too!”

“How about this?”

“Oh, oh, oh!”

“Deeper?”

“Much deeper, please, harder, faster, too!”

“OH! OH!”

“Your mouth, right there.”

“Your beautiful tongue. Inside.”

“More, you gorgeous beast.”

“Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

They found fresh water and fruit, which Sherlock smeared across John’s chest and then licked clean. John enjoyed the sensation and spectacle so much that she made herself into a banquet table, lying back with pinched bits of sweet pulp dotting her torso, as eager to be feasted upon as Sherlock was to feast.

From the cave, they launched daily explorations. The interior of the island was mostly dense forest separated from the miles and miles of coast by cliffs. To their relief, no true predator ever threatened their path. Indeed, most of the inhabitants had feathers or hard shells, and they were careful to keep clear of sharp beaks and even sharper claws. The few rats and shrews that they spotted fled into the undergrowth at their approach. And there were no other humans, save themselves.

They made rudimentary tools from what they could find and the little human debris that washed ashore. They quickly abandoned their original dress and took to wearing primitive-style loincloths that John fashioned from portions of their tunics, and the new costume had its appeal far beyond ease of motion and comfort. One day, while Sherlock was bent over, studying a species of fern, John fell to her knees and began lapping at Sherlock’s rim. Sherlock’s startled cry soon became a moan of pleasure and a plea for more, and the day’s scientific inquiries were immediately abandoned in favour of reciprocal and unremitting arse-worship.

* * *

Even in the early days, they fell into periods of silence, with each keeping the other in sight, but content to pursue her chosen activities for the day without conversation or commentary. It was one of these days that found them on a beach, separated by a flock of seabirds playing tag with the tide. Sherlock felt John’s eyes on her and looked up. Even at a distance, she knew the glance was a beckoning one.

When they were close enough to touch, John grabbed Sherlock’s head by the roots of her dark hair, which was already beginning to mat in thick cords, and yanked her head down. Then John pressed three kisses to Sherlock’s forehead and said after each one,

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

John kissed Sherlock’s eyelids, her cheeks, her lips, and her chin, and after each kiss, it was the same three words. Sherlock closed her eyes and gave herself over to John’s ministrations without questioning what had brought about the sudden burst of sentiment.

She reveled in the touch of John's lips and the even more intimate caress of her words. What could it possibly mean to be this precious to another? Sherlock could more easily fathom a mermaid transforming into a human than she being the recipient of such adoration. And yet here was her proof. Over and over again. John’s mouth was now on Sherlock’s shoulders, which, like John’s, were becoming as brown as the nuts that John roasted by the fire each night. She felt John sink to the sand, and instinctively, for by now it was instinct, Sherlock stepped her legs apart. She craved John’s mouth there, there, there, on the inside of her thighs.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Sherlock turned and fell onto her knees, allowing John to push her flat against the sand. Then John’s lips were at the nape of Sherlock’s neck and traveling down her spine.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

Then there was a scream. John’s scream.

Sherlock looked up.

A wave. Coming not from the ocean, but from the interior. A wave of teeming red dots. Headed straight for them.

Sherlock screamed, too.

They both scrambled to their feet and ran down the beach to where the red dots were cresting the dunes in much smaller numbers.

“Crabs,” said John, hopping comically to avoid the skittering creatures.

Sherlock nodded. But these were not the mammoth specimens whose meat John prepared by the fire and fed Sherlock with her fingers. These were smaller and, it seemed to Sherlock, quite determined to reach the shore. Together. By the millions.

“Migration,” said Sherlock. She scaled a large rock and then bent to hoist John up. From their perch above, they watched the mass invasion, which spanned the entire beach, as far as their eyes could see.

“There’s only one thing that would make animals move like that, Sherlock.”

“Mating.”

John nodded. “And spawning.”

“Perhaps we should stay clear of this beach for a while.”

“Good idea. And we really have to start paying a bit more attention to our surroundings.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “Next time, Mother Nature may not be as kind.”

* * *

Days turned into weeks, with every rising and setting of the sun marked by John carving one more scratch on the cave wall.

They spent their nights curled together on several layers of woven fern fronds. One night, John woke suddenly. Her eyes went past the remnants of the night’s fire to the mouth of the cave and lingered.

Sherlock snuffled. “What?”

“Nothing,” John whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“Difficult when you’re squirming so. Tell me, John.”

“The moon. It affects me still. I want to…” It still cost her to say certain things aloud, even though she knew Sherlock held no such inhibitions, as was evident, in Sherlock’s reply.

“Turn and feed me your cunt. Then you may have your way with mine.”

John quickly complied. And the moon’s pull must’ve played on them both for they fucked and dozed and fucked until morning. And there was no exploration or scientific inquiry or amateur cartography to be done the following day for the increasingly feral demands of each for the other’s fingers and tongue and even teeth took priority. The next night they were so consumed with lust that they did not even return to the cave, being content to remain on a soft square of the forest floor, mating frequently and fiercely. The next morning, they crawled back to the cave to rest.

* * *

Weeks turned to months. They fashioned a deck of playing cards from stiff leaves and played cribbage using sticks in the sand.

The cards had their own pull for it was here that they chatted.

“As much as I abhor the idea of aiding Mycroft, I will be compelled to show her the rocks we found yesterday. If they are what I suspect they are, they have immense commercial import.”

“So you think to go back to London?” asked John

“Yes. Unless you object.”

John shook her head. “I am eager to see this place that means so much to you.” Her eyes went to the tattoo on Sherlock’s arm. To the casual glance, it was a drawing of the city, but upon closer inspection, one could see the outline of hidden objects, symbols of Sherlock’s life: a violin, a glass beaker, a teacup, a ship.

“I have concerns, though. As you said once, you are a Warm Water creature, and London can be quite cold.”

“Surely you have methods of keeping yourself insulated. Conventional and otherwise.” John wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Sherlock smiled. “No doubt, but it still worries me. It might be greater than even our combined heat can overcome.”

“We needn’t stay if it’s unpleasant, and I suppose we might winter somewhere else, but even if we best the weather, what would we do?”

“Perhaps I could consult, that is, solve puzzles for people in exchange for an exceptional fee. Or if that fails, I’m sure there’s some unfortunate nook or cranny of the Holmes Trading Company in which my sister would be more than happy to slot me. What would you like to do?”

John considered. “Perhaps I could study. You know I quite liked hearing from the Navigator how she nursed you back to health when you were stricken with fever. Are there places to study the healing arts?”

“There are, but I wouldn’t recommend it as a profession.”

“Why?”

Sherlock smiled mischievously. “Because from my experience, a physician’s primary occupation is to administer brandy. You’d earn a tidier sum performing the same task as a barkeep!”

John laughed. “Speaking of your sister, I wonder how she and the Navigator are faring.”

“As long as Lestrade’s worthless husband is still breathing, I suspect that she’s pining in stoic silence from a considerable distance.”

“And the Navigator doesn’t suspect, at least that what it seemed to me when we parted.”

“No. Would you, if I hadn’t made you aware?”

John shrugged. “No, but you said that your sister is funding her five daughters’ education in a distant city. Surely that’s a measure of devotion.”

Sherlock nodded. “Edinburgh. Anonymously, but Lestrade does have her—well founded—suspicions about that. I’m sure my sister has justified the expense to herself on the grounds of charity and perhaps a pre-emptive strike against disaster, after all, she is removing them from a home that the often drunk and careless Mister Lestrade has seen fit to burn to ashes. Twice.”

“Do you think those two will find their happy ending?”

“Not too long ago, I would’ve said no. Emphatically, without reservation or doubt, no. But since that time, I’ve seen a mermaid’s tail turn into legs and I’ve seen a mermaid’s lips profess her love for me, so…” Sherlock shrugged.

“Anything is possible?”

“Yes, but enough about them. If we do return, I want to add another bit of ink to my canvas.”

“Oh yes?”

“I want my beautiful mermaid, etched forever, right here,” she held out her left arm, “just as I remember her from our first encounter.”

“You may be a Cold Water creature, Sherlock, but your heart is so very, very warm.”

“Constant and close proximity to a source of heat, my Dear,” said Sherlock, leaning closer to kiss John’s smiling lips. “That would be you.”


	2. Chapter 2

The knock at the front door woke Mycroft from her reverie.

She had received the latest figures earlier that morning, and the Holmes Trading Company was, to everyone’s surprise but her own, continuing to turn a tidy profit. Her latest investment was proving so lucrative, in fact, that that she’d rewarded herself with a brief sojourn into fantasy.

The scene was rooted in reality. Train to Edinburgh. Private first-class compartment. But it quickly progressed from the amiable conversation that she’d shared with her travelling companion to something far more intimate. Flirting, teasing, joking, punctuated by touches that became more heated and demanding as the imaginary journey progressed.

The dream-fog lifted quickly; Mycroft listened to the voices below.

“No, I am not collecting for charity. I wish to speak with Widow Holmes.”

Mycroft’s breath caught. Straight from her mind’s fiction to her very doorstep! She’d had no direct news of her in weeks and here now her she was.

“Your card?” squeaked a nasally voice.

Mycroft’s blood turned cold.

Oh, no. That would not do.

“No, you see, I’m afraid I haven’t a…” the voice replied.

“Anthea,” said Mycroft.

The butler materialized like a spectre.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The new girl is not giving satisfaction.”

“No, ma’am.”

“See to it.”

“Yes, ma’am. Tea in the morning room, ma’am?”

“Of course. Something of a—“

Mycroft did not know how well her schemes to bolster the woman’s income, through secondary, and even a few tertiary, intermediaries were faring. More plainly, she did not know how much of the funds were being siphoned to support Mister Lestrade’s fondness for drink. And the idea of her being hungry worried Mycroft to the point of distraction.

“Fortifying nature,” supplied the butler.

“Yes, but without—“

The woman had her pride. So did Mycroft, for that matter.

“Giving the appearance of such. Yes, ma’am.”

Mycroft smiled. What a blessing it was to be understood by at least one inhabitant of this vexing sphere!

She rose slowly. And as she moved forward, she laid each foot on the floor in front of the other, carefully measuring her cadence, one step per four violent beats of her heart.

* * *

“Mrs. Lestrade, please forgive the...”

Her back was to Mycroft. “It’s quite all right. Understandable mistake when one looks the part.”

“She will be making her mistakes elsewhere,” said Mycroft coolly.

“You run a very tight ship, Widow Holmes.”

Mycroft studied her visitor as she turned.

Thin to the point of gaunt. Dark smudges under her eyes.

Damn him!

Mycroft pushed her fury aside. Now she was even more grateful for her foresight about the tea. The only question was how she could persuade this lovely creature, once she’d had her fill here, to take some food with her.

“It’s been ages since our lovely trip to Edinburgh.” Lestrade caught Mycroft’s gaze. “I’m afraid I am bearer of distressing news and to compound matters, I’m to ask favour of you.”

Mycroft made a vague gesture, as if physically brushing aside the latter. Whatever this woman wanted, small or large, Mycroft would grant, but the news was most likely about…

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“Please come in and sit. Tea will be brought very shortly.”

* * *

Soon they were seated opposite each other, cups and saucers in hand.

“There is a rumour, Widow Holmes, I’ve heard through my former sea-faring chums. Sherlock and John are no longer with _The Crumb_. They’ve been lost at sea.”

Mycroft felt a too-familiar sinking feeling in her chest. She set her cup and saucer on the small table that separated them.

“How?”

“They were in a dinghy that was set adrift right before _The Crumb_ was struck by a sudden and violent storm.”

Mycroft knew that her own expression mirrored that of her companion: incredulous horror, with a slight bit more of the incredulity than the horror.

“What were they doing in the dinghy? Oh.”

A raised eyebrow told Mycroft everything.

Sherlock! Good Lord!

“Where exactly?” she asked.

“I asked that question myself and based on the answers I received, I have a notion as to where they were last seen. It would be easier for me to draw it.”

Mycroft rose and found paper and pen. She watched the other woman scribble.

“I confess that I am torn, Mrs. Lestrade. I have mourned Sherlock’s passing so many times and so many times she has shown me just how wrong I was. She has more lives than any creature in the animal kingdom, feline or otherwise, and yet to do anything but assume her and John dead seems impractical to the point of foolhardy.”

“Here.”

Mycroft took the crude map.

“I have a suggestion.”

“Please,” said Mycroft.

“The other night I went to a lecture at the Royal Geographic Society—“

Mycroft immediately had visions of the two of them, walking arm-in-arm, chatting about the wonders of faraway lands and the customs of foreign tribes. She shook her head and blinked.

“—and thought, why not spread the word among those explorers as they mount their expeditions, along with your merchant vessels, that there is a reward for the crew that finds Sherlock and John and brings them home. Alive, of course.”

“And if the reward were a handsome one, say, not just a one-time prize, but perhaps future commissions of the Holmes Trading Company, it would be a very attractive incentive.”

“Yes. What do you think? Those are the types of fellows that might be familiar with places, islands, in that,” she pointed to her drawing, “part of the world. And word will spread like a contagion, I assure you.”

“I think it’s brilliant, and it will assuage my sororal concerns about having some response, some strategy, some plan of action. I cannot possibly travel here,” Mycroft held up the paper, “and search for them myself.” She nodded and, with the decision made, gave a satisfied sigh. Then she gestured to the plates of food on the table. “Please, help yourself.”

Eat, my Dear, please eat. I would know for certain that for at least a few scant moments you suffered no pangs of hunger.

“It all looks so fine.”

“I beg that you eat. I do not hold with insistent, but insincere words or with the ridiculous notions of propriety that others, especially those of our own sex, hold so dear.”

For example, the propriety that says I must not imagine being bound, naked and wet and wanting, at your tender and not-so-tender mercy.

“That is one of your many virtues, Widow Holmes.”

Mycroft blushed at the warm smile. “Now, the favour.” Please say ‘kill my husband and ensconce me in your bed and by your side for the rest of our natural lives.’

“Ah. I want to go back to sea. To be a navigator again…”

To leave me. Mycroft’s heart sank for a moment, then she reconsidered. Or to leave him? Her mood immediately lightened.

“…nothing long. Six months. Is something available?”

There will be. Something as safe as the sea allows. And surely the sea is a more responsible than a drunken lout.

“I believe so. I will need to consult with several associates to be sure. When would you like to leave?”

“As soon as possible. The girls are safe in Edinburgh and…”

You are not safe? Mycroft frowned.

Lestrade reached for her tea cup. Mycroft froze at the sight of a pale wrist blighted with a wide, angry welt.

Stay calm. Stay. Calm.

She could not stay calm!

Mycroft quickly reached for the arm and pushed up the sleeve. Two more matching welts! She stared. Then she released the arm and, with much effort, schooled her voice into a normal register.

“My dear, you’ve…”

Lestrade pulled down her sleeve. “It’s nothing,” she said quickly. “It is healing very well. I’ve been using a salve that I learned of aboard ship. It’s much effective in repairing the skin. It’s made from a succulent that…”

Mycroft’s rage bubbled over. She stood and roared.

“He has burned you!”

“No, no. It is not his doing.”

How can you defend him? Defend his abuse?

“Please don’t insult my intelligence by stating it was an accident! Those are marks of made by deliberate placing of a hot iron against the skin. Was he drunk? I knew he was careless, but vicious as well?!”

Now Mycroft was pacing as best she could in her heavily padded widow-wear. How she longed to shed the unnatural layers and move about in her true form, which was lithe and limber as a reed.

“I will swear on anything you find holy that he is not the cause of this, Widow Holmes.”

“I do not believe you!”

Mycroft winced at the words even as they left her lips. But they were true! God help her, they were true.

“Please, please believe me. And don’t press me for more. To confess the true origin would lose me the one thing I value most—after the beating hearts of my five girls.”

“And what is that?”

“Your esteem.” The words were soft, more breath than sound. Mycroft answered in a similar hushed tone,

“That cannot be lost.”

“Now it is I who do not believe you.”

Large, round, and, yes, begging, eyes looked up at Mycroft. and she was lost, so utterly lost. It was an abhorrent feeling! She growled in frustration.

Then the lips that haunted Mycroft’s dreams twitched into a smile. “We are a stubborn pair, aren’t we?”

Mycroft melted and smiled too. Well, she attempted a smile. Sherlock had often commented how much Mycroft’s smile gave the appearance of one who had lost a life-long battle with constipation, and Mycroft had never bother to employ a looking glass to confirm or dispel this assessment herself.

“Yes, I guess we are. I will make my inquiries and send word of the possible crews that you may join.”

“Thank you. Thank you so very much. I will do my part to spread the word about Sherlock and John’s rescue and will listen for any news of them.”

Mycroft nodded and sat down.

“One more question, Widow Holmes.”

I have a question myself: how can I find your biting of your lip so charming? So patently delightful?

“May I write you?”

Surely, that noise was not Mycroft’s heart beating! It must be the clock, some clock, somewhere.

“Of course, I would welcome your correspondence.” Welcome is such a pale, weak bit of language, isn’t it?

“Sherlock took such patient pains to teach me to read and write while I served on _The Science of Deduction_. I shouldn’t want to let my skills atrophy from disuse.”

“And so rare is the occurrence of anything that has inspired patience in Sherlock that it should be lauded and, if possible, immortalized in song and gilded monument.”

That laugh, that smile. That my words provoked both! Mycroft tucked the memory away, deep inside her.

“More tea?”

“Yes, please. And perhaps another slice of cake?”

Mycroft smiled. To herself.


	3. Chapter 3

Months passed. The wet season ended. The dry season began. The dry season ended.

Sherlock and John were on their return journey from the tip of the island when both felt the shift in the moon phase. The entire trek had been conducted in silence, and without a word, Sherlock brushed her fingertip along John’s ribs. John turned and folded easily into Sherlock’s embrace. With John’s arms around her neck and John’s legs around her waist, Sherlock lifted John off the ground, bracing her against a tree at the forest’s edge.

It would’ve been more convenient to return to the cave because one wall sported an indentation that, while originally quite suited for the purpose, was by now, with frequent use, even more suited for the purpose. It moulded to John’s back smoothly and was at just the right height for Sherlock to grind her hips into John, as she was doing now, and achieve the friction that brought them both to sure and swift release.

But they did not want to wait. They wanted to fuck, no, they needed to fuck. Now.

The grunting and groaning turned to snarls. Sherlock growled and sank her teeth into the slope of John’s neck. John growled, too, and nipped at Sherlock’s shoulder. Then John was whimpering and squeezing Sherlock tight between her legs. Sherlock snuffled and licked at her bite mark. With limbs twined, they tumbled to the forest floor, landing on a mound of soft vegetation. They wrestled playfully then they began licking each other in earnest.

Sherlock’s body was completely covering John’s and her mouth was kissing John’s sweetly and tenderly when she heard a noise. It took her a long moment to realise it was a human voice.

A _male_ human voice.

“Look! A pair of orangutans! Mating!”

John gave a puzzled cry and froze, but Sherlock sprang to her feet, standing tall, her chin raised defiantly. Her voice was raw and cracked, but dripping with scathing disdain.

“Look! A pack of asses! Being stupid!”

Eight sets of human eyes were on Sherlock. She felt John at her back and instinctively spread her arms in a gesture of protection.

“Them’s women!” said one of the men, pointing.

“Wait! Wait” called a voice from the back of the group. A tall man pushed forward. He wiped his brow with a kerchief and said slowly,

“Are you Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock heard John’s sharp intake of breath.

“I am,” said Sherlock, her voice become stronger and more even with every utterance.

“HURRAH!” they cheered.

They whooped and whistled and two of them even began to dance an impromptu jig with one another.

Sherlock stared, wide-eyed.

John laughed. “I didn’t see that coming, did you?”

Sherlock shook her head.

Another man stepped forward. “We should head straight for London and collect our reward!”

“Ah,” mumbled Sherlock. “This is Mycroft’s doing.”

Another yelled back. “No, this is a scientific expedition, and I mean to explore this island completely before we depart.”

The two continued to argue with the rest of the men taking sides. It looked like fists were going to be drawn when Sherlock interrupted.

“My partner and I have extensive knowledge of the island. We can aide you and thus expedite your researches.”

That seemed two pacify both parties. A man extended his hand to Sherlock. “My name’s Murray. I study oceans and marine life.”

Sherlock shook his hand. Then she gestured to John, who was peeking out from behind her. “This is Watson. She’s quite the expert in your field of study. I believe you could learn much from her.”

“Pleased to meet you both.” He shook John’s hand.

“When do you imagine you’ll return to London?” asked John.

The man looked at his companions.

“Lads, what say we have a very Happy Christmas?”

They cheered again.


	4. Chapter 4

The carriage stopped, and Mycroft was jostled from her fantasy of a first class compartment on the train to Edinburgh to the reality of her front door.

Anthea met her at the entrance.

Something is happening.

“Mrs. Lestrade paid you a visit, ma’am.”

“How long ago…?” Mycroft asked quickly.

“I asked her to wait in the morning room. And provided her some light refreshment.”

Mycroft reached out and squeezed his arm. His eyes grew wide. She quickly released him and turned away, saying with her usual coolness. “Very well, Anthea. That will be all.”

He disappeared as Mycroft unpinned her hat. Her heart beat loudly in her chest. Her blood rushed in her ears. Her fingers trembled as she plucked pins and dropped them carelessly on the side table.

She’s returned! Safe!

“Hello, Mrs. Lestrade, so good to see you again.”

At first glance, she was more gorgeous than Mycroft had remembered, with bronzed skin and golden highlights in her auburn hair, and dark eyes blown black. She was smiling warmly, then her face froze.

“Oh, my!”

What? What?

Mycroft put a hand to her head. And was struck with terror.

She hadn’t just unpinned her hat. She had unpinned her _hair_.

“I’m so very sorry,” said Mycroft hastily. She brushed her short dark locks self-consciously with her fingers. “I was distracted by the news of your arrival. I will just go make myself presentable…”

“No, no.” Mycroft felt a hand on hers, and the touch stilled her. “I like it. It suits you more.”

Mycroft’s embarrassment was overshadowed by her concern for her visitor. Up close, it was easy to see that her skin was too flush; indeed, sweat was beading on her brow right now though the room was quite cool. Her eyes were dilated and flashing. Her breath was quick and jagged.

“Are you ill, my dear?”

“Just a touch of boat fever.” She waved a dismissive hand.

Now Mycroft was alarmed.

“But I have news! Well, I think I have news!”

“Sherlock?”

“ _The Challenger_ is making a drastic alteration in its course and returning to London directly.”

A charting map exploded in Mycroft’s mind.

“ _The Challenger_ , yes, Murray’s crew, right? Marine life, oceans? Its path would fit with where you said they were last seen.”

“Yes. There is a rumour that they are carrying very, uh, singular cargo.”

“Which is?”

“A witch and a bear.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. Then she frowned.

“The witch could very well be Sherlock, but the bear…”

“That’s supposition on my part, but hear my reasoning. Sherlock said that John was a ‘Warm Water creature.’ Imagine that you are a Holmes—“

“Very easy,” remarked Mycroft with a twitch of a smile.

“—and you’re bringing back such a creature to London in winter. And you’re hopelessly smitten, as I think we both agree Sherlock is.”

“True.”

“What would you do?”

Mycroft considered. She would take this beautiful girl and wrap her in…

“Furs,” said Mycroft

“Exactly! Lots of them, no? Your type don’t do things by halves.”

“Certainly not. When is _The Challenger_ expected to arrive?”

“Late December.”

“In time for…”

“Christmas. Quite possibly.”

“Well, I must confirm what you say through my own channels, but this is first bit of good news I’ve received in months.” Mycroft nodded. “Sherlock home for Christmas! It would be dramatic and that alone would appeal to her. And speaking of Christmas, you and your daughters are invited to spend the holiday here as well.”

“Oh, I couldn’t subject you to that! Your house is so fine. My girls are spirited, to say the least.”

“Please, this place is too large for one person, especially at Christmas. Most of it is swathed in dust-covers.”

“That’s very generous of you. I will consider it. Well, I must be going.” 

She rose quickly. Mycroft rose with her and extended a steadying hand as her companion wobbled.

“My dear, are you sure that you are—?“

Mycroft caught her as she swooned.

* * *

Mycroft stared at the embroidered edge of the gown.

An upstairs guestroom had quickly been converted to sickroom, and her beloved’s sweat-soaked clothes exchanged for one of her own night dresses. More than one medical professional had been summoned. A servant had been dispatched to the chemist. Twice. Weak broth and even weaker tea had been prepared.

Mycroft had put her business affairs on hold, left Anthea in charge of the house, and had settled down to keep vigil. Her eyes travelled from the stitched yellow rose buds around the neck of the gown to the string of beads in the sleeping woman’s hand. Mycroft had found the rosary in a trouser pocket, and after re-dressing her, had gently placed the cross between her beloved’s fingers.

Mycroft did not believe in the god of those beads, but _she_ did. And Mycroft believed in _her_. And if ever they were both in need of an extraordinary set of circumstances, Mycroft would not deign to even think the word ‘miracle,’ well, now was the time.   


How Mycroft loved her! What she would do for this beautiful creature there was no limit. She would even bow her head to pray. If necessary. Yes, she would pray if it meant that her beloved would recover, open her eyes, smile…

Mycroft looked up and gasped.

Her eyes _were_ open. She was staring at Mycroft, open-mouthed, as if Mycroft had forgotten her hair again. She had not. She checked twice.

Oh! She saw my face. She must know!

Mycroft hurried to the door muttering, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll ask one of the…”

“Mycroft.”

Her name. Her name on those lips. How many times had she dreamed it? Imagined it? She wasn’t even sure that the other woman was aware that she _had_ a Christian name, much less one even more difficult and obscure than Sherlock.

Mycroft stopped with her hand on the door knob. She turned and saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, making to stand.

“Get back in bed! You’re in no position to be…”

“Please don’t run away. Come back.”

In her heart of hearts, Mycroft was no coward so she walked slowly back to the bed and assisted the woman back into bed. With the covers drawn, she looked into Mycroft’s eyes and said plainly,

“You love me.”

The words hit Mycroft like a blow to the chest, and she fought to choke out a reply.

“Yes.”

She licked her dry lips and Mycroft offered her the tea, which she sipped and then set on a side table. Then she took a deep breath and pulled up her sleeve and turned over her arm.

The three burns had left scars, but much lighter than Mycroft would have anticipated.

“We had a very nice trip to Edinburgh.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, frowning at the non-sequitur.

“After the trip, I found myself…,” she looked down at her arm, “…thinking of you. Often. Very often. And in ways that were not precisely… _natural_.”

Mycroft held her breath.

“I didn’t know what to do because the one person to whom I might turn when things are muddled was unavailable to me for obvious reasons.”

“Your husband?”

She rolled her eyes and laughed. “ _You_ , you idiot!” And in that moment she looked and sounded so much like Sherlock, Mycroft had to laugh, too.

And the tension was broken, but not for long.

“…and so,” she fiddled with her beads, “…I went to confession.”

Oh, God.

“…and he, the priest, told me to, to purge myself of sin with cleansing flame…”

Mycroft sank slowly, and if the chair had not been there, she would’ve ended up in a heap on the floor.

“…and submit to my husband in every way.”

“You did it yourself,” whispered Mycroft. “You burned yourself.”

She nodded. “And that’s why I had to leave. I’ve had five daughters by him, Mycroft, and as much as I love them, I don’t want another.”

Mycroft blinked back tears. Then she stood and went to the table where the various powders and other preparations from the chemist’s shop were carefully arranged. She returned with a transparent salve in a round flat tin.

“Allow me,” she croaked.

And with an assenting nod, Mycroft applied the salve to the scars with her fingers.

“You mustn’t…” Mycroft began. Ever hurt yourself because of me.

“It didn’t work! So I,” the words were cut short by loud sniffing, “stopped. I’m mean it’s madness to continue replicating something that, that, that has no utility. That only hurts.”

When Mycroft finished, she realised that they were both openly weeping.

“Is it no consolation that your feelings are reciprocated?” asked Mycroft softly.

She shook her head. “I would have our pain halved, rather than doubled.” She fingered the beads. “I made a vow in front of God, Mycroft. I can’t, I won’t…”

“I wouldn’t ask it of you.” Mycroft took the journey to the table to return the salve to compose herself. “But,” she turned, “you will stay here until completely convalesced and then, perhaps, something…”

“He won’t like it, Mycroft. He was none too pleased about our trip to Edinburgh. He's fairly harmless sober, but when he drinks.... I wouldn’t invite that kind of trouble, his kind of trouble, to your doorstep. If I’m too long removed, he will take me back by force.”

“He may try,” said Mycroft coldly. “He will not succeed.”

She fell back against the pillow, sighing and wiping her face with her sleeve.

“Rest. I will call on some associates and see if I can confirm what you have told me about Sherlock. I will return shortly. Anthea will be on guard for any unpleasantness. You may rely on him as you would me.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. Oh, I never even asked if it was acceptable to call you by your—“

“You may, and in private, I shall insist on it, but perhaps in public it would be wiser…”

“Of course.”

“And I…”

“Gregoria is an awful mouthful. I don’t suppose you’d call me ‘Greg.’”

Mycroft shuddered. “We shall table this discussion for later. Rest.”

She closed her eyes. Mycroft closed the door behind her to mumbling and the faint rustle of beads on bedding.

Pray for both of us, my dear.


	5. Chapter 5

Mycroft emerged from the carriage sometime later much pleased with the results of her excursion. She was meet at the door by a trio of shrieking servants.

“He’s here! He burst his way through! He means to kills us all!”

“Mister Anthea forbid us to go upstairs! Said he would deal with it!”

“We’re all to be murdered!”

“Who?” roared Mycroft over the din.

“Mister Lestrade!”

Mycroft hurried inside. She looked up and saw her beloved being forcibly dragged down the hall. Then there was Anthea, jerking the woman from the villain’s grasp just as they reached the top of the main staircase. The force of the movement put the intruder off balance. He stepped back to steady himself and then he slipped and flailed. With a blood-curdling scream, he tumbled backwards down the stairs and landed in a pile at the bottom.

The entire scene was witnessed from below by the still-shrieking servants and Mycroft. Mycroft walked to the man and put a finger to the side of his neck.

Then she looked up into a pair of terrified eyes. “He’s dead,” she pronounced.

And if he wasn’t, Mycroft would have no reservations about wringing his neck right now. Discreetly, of course.

Mycroft watched her beloved’s mouth drop open and her horror-filled brown eyes roll back in her head, and then it was Anthea doing the catching as she swooned.

* * *

Two days later, Mycroft was reviewing the household accounts with Anthea.

“Careless of you.”

“Yes, ma’am. To drop the whole of the lamp oil on the stairs like that. Most careless.”

They shared one single silent moment. Then Mycroft cleared her throat.

“So I’d like to have Widow Lestrade lodged in the—“

“Third bedroom, ma’am?”

So you know about the hidden passageway from my sleeping chambers, do you? She gave him a hard stare, but he replied placidly,

“It gets the best sun in the afternoon. I think a lady accustomed to life at sea might like to appreciate that.”

You're forgiven. Call her a lady and the rest of them will treat her like one. Good.

“Quite. She is to be a guest of ours until her convalesce and her period of mourning is complete.”

Fortunately, the times called for a widow’s mourning to never be fully complete. Finally, one of those silly society rules working in Mycroft’s favour!

“Will the widow’s children be joining us for Christmas?”

“Yes, and, if fortune allows, so will Sherlock and her…companion…so please spare no expense and make every effort. Food, decorations, music, treats, I want every aspect of the festivities well represented. All the guestrooms prepared as they will be filled.”

“Why we’ve not had a real Christmas in this house since...”

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed, so let’s make it as memorable as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

* * *

Mycroft knocked softly.

Perhaps she’s sleeping.

She turned the doorknob and peeked inside.

A dark dress lay primly on the bed. Mycroft scanned the room and stopped at the weeping heap on the floor.

“My dear,” began Mycroft.

She’s grieving, actually grieving, for that bastard.

Words erupted between sobs. “I…should…feel…something…”

“A certain numbness is to be expected. After all, it is a shock.”

“…other…than…relief!”

She looked up at Mycroft with puffy, splotched eyes. Mycroft knelt beside her and smiled and brushed her hair from her face.

“Your relief, however great, pales in comparison to my own. You are safe. Your girls are safe. There is nothing more I want.”

Mycroft felt the full force of her and fell back hard onto the floor. Then lips were on hers, kissing her soundly.

When the kiss broke, Mycroft breathed, “Gregoria.”

“When you say it, it sounds like a prayer.”

“Widow Lestrade.”

They both smiled.

“Widow Holmes, this,” hands were running over Mycroft’s bulk, “is not you.”

Mycroft shook her head. “It’s my widow-wear.” She looked up and nodded toward the black dress on the bed. “As part of me as that.”

“I would know your true form.” Mycroft’s blushed deepened at the second whisper. “And I’ll need some help getting in my mourning dress.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the pronoun issues. Mystrade porn ahoy!


	6. Chapter 6

Greg sighed.

Finally.

Finally she got to see her without all the trappings.

They were both down to their chemise and drawers, standing by the bed on the side opposite the black dress.

“You’re gorgeous!” exclaimed Greg; Mycroft turned an even deeper, even more charming shade of pink. “If you knew how many fantasies…” Greg leaned closer and began running her hands all over Mycroft’s body, feeling warm skin and hard muscles through the thin fabric.

“I have trunks of them,” Mycroft confessed, pressing her lips to Greg’s neck. “And to that end,” she slipped away and walked to the fireplace. Her finger searched for something and then found it.

Click!

“A door!” said Greg with surprise.

Mycroft nodded.

“To your chamber?”

Mycroft nodded again, smiling. “So some nights…”

“Or afternoons,” suggested Greg, grinning. She closed the distance between them and pressed her lips to Mycroft’s.

Mycroft pulled back and laughed. “Or mornings,” she said huskily.

“I foresee that I will be prostrate with grief for weeks and weeks!”

Mycroft hummed and kissed her. “Trunks, my dear.”

“Let’s unpack every one.”

* * *

“First rule,” said Greg between kisses. “No widow-padding or hair when you come to me. Or I to you. I adore you, just as you are.”

Mycroft nodded; she studied Greg’s face. “I can scarcely believe that this isn’t another one of my morning room fantasies.”

“Would this help convince you?” teased Greg as she slipped out of the remainder of her clothing.

Mycroft groaned. “You are warm and soft and so very, very beautiful.”

Greg felt Mycroft’s hands on her, as if everywhere at once, squeezing and caressing, mapping every inch of her flesh with curious and determined fingertips.

Then Mycroft huffed impatiently, “There’s not time to explore and be explored as I would wish.”

Greg turned her head and stared at the dress. “I suppose the funeral can’t go on without me.”

Mycroft brushed her lips across Greg’s bare shoulder as her finger traced Greg’s ribs and hip bones. “Some allowances will be made for a widow’s grief.”

“I’m not sorry he’s dead, Mycroft. I married him when I was little more than a child and for many years, he and my girls were all that I knew. Then one day, by sheer accident, I crossed paths with Sherlock. I helped her out a spot of trouble and she did that thing,” Greg wiggled her fingers at her temples, “that you both do and told me things I didn’t even know about myself. And then I met you and then my girls were safe and I was at sea. And then my new life started and my real education began. And I learned and learned and learned. And with every day I spent aboard ship, I felt stronger and surer. And when I returned, I couldn’t fit in that old life, that old bed, that old set of clothes that he—and everyone else—expected me to wear. And then we went to Edinburgh. And I realized that I wanted nothing more than to be by your side. And now I can be.” She took Mycroft’s hands in her and kissed them. “If you want me.”

“I have not wanted anything more since I first laid eyes on you. I denied it. I used distance and business and even personal austerity to try and stamp it out, but it refused to vacate me. Even if you hadn’t been married to a petty scoundrel, I told myself, you could not possibly return my affection. I would lay my fortune, my wits, all that I am and have and will ever be and possess at your feet. And I know that I want you.” She kissed Greg’s shoulder. “Every moment of the day. Including this one.”

“Then take me,” breathed Greg. “And then show me the quickest way into that dress.”

Mycroft chuckled; then her hand slipped between them, cupping Greg gently. Greg tried to rock into the touch, but whimpered in frustration. Mycroft slipped her leg between Greg’s.

“Ah, better, needed more…”

“Friction,” supplied Mycroft.

As Greg began to rut, she gripped the back of Mycroft’s neck, sinking fingernails into the skin at the nape. Mycroft sucked in a sharp breath. One of her hands was on Greg’s buttock, squeezing and guiding her; the other rested lightly on Greg’s hip.

“With time, I will know precisely how and where…”

“Y-y-you’re doing just fine right now,” stammered Greg, slamming her hips clumsily into Mycroft. “Kiss me.”

Mycroft covered Greg’s mouth with her own, swallowing her cry of pleasure.

“Oh, Mycroft. I want to…” Greg eased the strap of Mycroft’s chemise down, kissing the exposed skin.

“There isn’t time.”

Greg whined.

“My dear…”

Greg grabbed Mycroft by the arms. “After, I will have you,” she growled, “right there.” She pointed to the bed with a firm index finger. “Twice.”

Greg watched as a full-body shudder took hold of Mycroft.

“As you wish,” Mycroft replied in a hoarse voice. Then she cleared her throat and said more clearly, “It will give us both something to contemplate during the ceremony.”

Greg laughed. “We are a pair of wicked widows, aren’t we?”

Mycroft grinned. “Not yet,” she nodded to the dress, “Your uniform awaits.”

* * *

“I think I can still taste you. Even after dinner,” whispered Greg.

They were snuggled close in the dark, Mycroft spooning behind Greg.

“Then I must recommend you change tooth powders.”

Greg giggled.

Mycroft shushed her, then said, “Perhaps, my dear, when it comes time for the girls to return for their winter holiday, we could travel together and fetch them.”

“Oh, Mycroft! That would be lovely. _Oh_.” The arm around Greg’s waist tightened a bit. “That would mean a long train ride.”

“Private first class compartment.”

“All the things we could do.”

“Yes.”

“I used to have this naughty dream.”

“Mm?”

Greg brought Mycroft’s hands between her legs and raised one thigh. She sighed when Mycroft’s fingers began teasing her folds. She sighed again when one probing finger slipped inside, and then two.

“Oh, God, yes,” she moaned when Mycroft’s fingers began to thrust in earnest. “I would be hidden beneath your, your, your skirt, sucking your swollen clit while you were f-f-forced to chat with the ticket collector.”

Mycroft licked Greg’s neck. “Naughty, naughty girl.” Greg reached back, and very soon she was translating every stroke of Mycroft’s hand inside her to Mycroft’s own cunt.

“Right there, is it? Is that the sweet spot, my love? My gorgeous girl, my beautiful Mycroft. Right there?”

“Yes, yes, please.”

They came together with hands cramping and soaked to the wrist.

“I’ve already placed a few orders at very discrete Parisian shops. Some,” Mycroft kissed Greg’s hair, “undergarments to add to your widow’s wardrobe. Silks and satins. A bit of lace. All black, of course, nothing inappropriate.”

“How thoughtful of you,” said Greg with a wry smile. “I suppose you will need to see if they fit.”

“Of course.” Mycroft cupped Greg’s breast and began thumbing the nipple slowly. “I think I have estimated the measurements correctly, but one can’t be certain.”

“Oh Mycroft!” Greg wiggled her bottom against Mycroft’s mons. Then she twisted until they were lying face-to-face.

Mycroft buried her nose in Greg’s cleavage and nuzzled. “Fair warning: one night, I shall do nothing but suckled at these until morning.” She licked and sucked Greg’s nipples while her hands kneaded the generous flesh of Greg’s breast.

“Just one night?”

Mycroft scraped her teeth gently against the pink bud. “Naughty girl.”

Greg pushed Mycroft roughly on her back and then straddled her. She hissed in a low voice, “I think one night—nay, many nights—you will be the naughty girl! Naughty girls get their pretty little bottoms spanked!”

Greg could barely make out Mycroft’s face in the darkness, but she heard the sharp intake of breath followed by the hard swallow. Greg smiled widely and knew her arrow had hit its mark. Then she leaned down and whispered into Mycroft’s ear, “Don’t worry. Afterwards, I’ll kiss it and make it better.”

Mycroft bit her lip, stifling a groan. Her hips bucked wildly into Greg.

“Maybe I’ll tie you up,” said Greg softly. She bent to kiss Mycroft’s lips. “And see what tickles.” Kiss. “And what stings.” Kiss.

Mycroft made to turn. Greg raised onto her knees, allowing for the full motion. Then Mycroft reached for two pillows. She shoved the first between her legs and mounted it. The second she used to muffle her groans, but Greg heard them nonetheless.

“Gregoria.”

“Perhaps another discrete Parisian shop? For _accoutrement_?”

“Yes, yes! We’ll go together.”

“The journey home will be educational for both of us.”

“Oh, love!”

Greg covered Mycroft’s body with hers, and when she felt Mycroft tense, lifted her head to bite at the slope of Mycroft’s neck.

Mycroft screamed into the pillow.

* * *

“I would wake to your tongue deep inside me.”

“Come here and allow me to rehearse.”

* * *

“I would feed you an entire meal with my fingers.”

“My breakfast tray will be awaiting you this very morning.”

* * *

“Make me scream.”

“Make me beg.”

* * *

When they were both limp, Greg gathered Mycroft to her and held her close. And with Mycroft’s head pillowed on her breasts, she caressed her cheek, all the while murmuring sweet, syrupy endearments.

“My handsome girl, my enchanting maiden, my bright star, my precious jewel.”

Mycroft lifted her head and said, “I shall commission the building of a ship, nay a whole merchant fleet, and name a vessel after you and each of your girls.”

“I love you, you silly romantic.” Greg kissed her.

“And I love you. The dawn is coming so I will retreat to my own bed, but we have so many beautiful days ahead of us.”

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

Mycroft rose, smiling. “I’m sure that I will find that I no longer need to dream, so sweet is the waking.”


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft and Greg stood at the docks, waiting. They had both taken to wearing voluminous skirt with so many layers that, when they stood side-by-side as they were now, they hid their clasped fingers.

Clomp, clomp, clomp!

“There she is,” breathed Greg, squeezing Mycroft’s hand.

Mycroft merely nodded and stood a bit straighter.

Sherlock looked every bit the winter pirate in her black boots, tight dark breeches and heavy cloak. She was followed by a furry mound.

Greg gave a startled laugh. “Oh my goodness! No wonder they call her a bear!”

Sherlock strode directly for them.

“Welcome home, Sister Dear,” said Mycroft.

“Thank you.” Sherlock nodded to Greg and gave her black dress a cursory glance. “Congratulations.”

Mycroft rolled her eyes. “Really, Sherlock!”

“Oh, are we pretending widowhood isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to her? How did you do it? Poison?”

“I did not kill him,” insisted Mycroft.

“Ah, it was Anthea, then. No matter.”

John shuffled out from behind Sherlock. She pushed her hood back from her face and lowered her scarf.

“Hello, Mycroft! Hello, Navigator!”

Greg smiled. “Happy Christmas, John!”

“It’s my first one, and I’m quite keen,” she said, beaming.

“There will be a traditional Christmas, won’t there, Mycroft?” asked Sherlock with a concerned frown.

“With all the trimmings,” Mycroft gestured to the carriage, “awaiting your arrival.”

Sherlock nodded. “Here’s your gift from me. Not exactly a lump of coal in your stocking.” She tossed a rock at Mycroft, who caught it deftly and studied it.

“Is this…?”

“Phosphate. As pure as anyone’s ever found.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “Sherlock!”

“No one else knows of it, except John, but I imagine it has potential.”

“Absolutely.” Mycroft shook her head in wonder. “Tremendous potential.”

“We can discuss the particulars later. I want a bit of a finder’s fee to set John and myself up in lodgings of our own. And John would like to study medicine formally, though she’s had quite the informal schooling on board. And,” she turned to Greg, “she’s made a very serious study of boat fevers so she may be able to assist you to full recovery.”

Greg laughed. “I welcome it.”

“Well, let’s not stand here in the cold,” said Sherlock curtly.

“And I expect we’ve all worked up an appetite,” added Mycroft. She and Sherlock headed for the carriage.

“Are you familiar at all with traditional Christmas songs, John?” asked Greg as they filed behind the two.

“No, not at all.”

“There’s one that comes to mind. I’ll teach it to you.” And Greg began to hum.

> _I saw three ships come sailing in_
> 
> _On Christmas Day, on Christmas Day;_
> 
> _I saw three ships come sailing in_
> 
> _On Christmas Day in the morning._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Merry Christmas!


End file.
